


A Dog's Life

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Collars, Dogs, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Femlock, First Time, Gender or Sex Swap, Hurt/Comfort, Master/Pet, Pet Play, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are so sentimental about their pets. Sherlock Holmes is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ [fan_flashworks community](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com/) prompt 'shot.'

John’s gaze drifted to a far corner of the park where a woman and her dog were playing on a grassy hill.

She was still watching them when Lestrade approached.

“A dog’s life.”

John nodded. “Run. Bark. Howl at the moon. And at the end of the day, get petted and brushed and told you’re a good girl. Not a bad lot.”

“I’d piss on every bastard’s leg here. Bite a couple, too.”

John laughed. “I wouldn’t mind trading places with her,” she pointed to the dog, “for, say, a rainy Sunday afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” said Lestrade. “I’m probably bitch enough as it is. All right, Sherlock. Enough buzzing about my crime scene. Give me everything you’ve got.”

* * *

That night, John’s hand brushed something under the pillow.

A square box.

She lifted the lid, and her eyebrows rose sharply.

A collar. Soft brown leather. Small gold buckle.

She examined the box.

No note. No label.

John unbuckled the collar and as she uncoiled the leather strip, read along the inside:

**_~ JOHN WATSON ~_ **

**_If lost, please return to Sherlock Holmes._ **

John dropped the collar back in the box and quickly replaced the lid.

She padded downstairs and set the box atop a dusty row of medical textbooks in the bookcase. Then she turned on her heels and headed back upstairs, pointedly ignoring the grey eyes that followed her.

* * *

On the following Sunday, with no case on the horizon and a steady rain beating upon the window panes, John made a show of collecting the box and carrying it upstairs.

As soon as the bedroom door closed, she heard the dull scraping of furniture being moved.

She took a deep breath.

What did one wear to be a dog? Besides a collar, of course.

John opted for pyjama trousers and a loose sleeveless vest, and at the last minute, donned an athletic bra beneath her top.

She and Sherlock were friends and colleagues, of a sort. Very early in their acquaintanceship, however, Sherlock had declared herself ‘married to her Work,’ and John was no homewrecker, no matter how drawn she was to her brilliant, beautiful, maddening flatmate.

If sex was part of the play, John would be pleasantly surprised.

She heard Sherlock setting a fire.

She fastened the collar around her neck. Then she looked down at her feet.

Socks? No socks?

Paws.

Socks.

Their armchairs had been displaced by the sofa, along the back of which was draped a pair of blankets.

John stood, hands by her side.

With the fire burning brightly behind her, Sherlock stood and turned. She also wore pyjamas, and John was relieved to see a twitch of nervousness in her smile.

Good. This was unchartered territory for the two of them.

Sherlock sat on one end of the sofa and patted the empty space with a flat hand.

“Come, John,” she said softly.

John crawled length-wise from the far end of the sofa and tentatively laid her head on Sherlock’s thigh. She was content to watch the fire, and she did so for some time before she felt Sherlock’s hand.

Petting her.

All at once, it was too much: the crackling fire; the pitter-patter of the rain; Sherlock’s soft, steady caress; the warmth of the blankets. John’s eyelids drooped, and the last thing she heard before she drifted off to sleep was Sherlock’s voice, saying,

“Good girl.”

* * *

John woke.

The room was cold. She was alone on the sofa. Her hand flew to her neck.

Bare.

By the lamplight, she could see the box in the bookcase. She rose and checked and marvelled at the relief that washed over her upon seeing the collar.

Just then, Sherlock appeared in the doorway, fully dressed, pinning her mass of dark unruly curls into submission, and John didn’t need to be the world’s only consulting detective to know the word that would issue from her lips.

“Case.”

* * *

Life returned to normal and not a single word was spoken between them about what had occurred. Every so often, John’s eyes would light upon the box, but it would be three weeks before she wore the collar again.

* * *

Sherlock was grumbling.

“The case was a ‘two’ by my standards, with only one minor feature of interest. Really, it held almost as little interest as that Belarus open and shut domestic murder. It had certainly not been worth leaving the flat—and that delicate experiment—on such a ghastly night.”

John barely heard Sherlock’s rant or the heavy sheets of rain that battered the taxi. She could not shake the image of the victim.

She was John.

In a world that favoured the young, beautiful, clever, spry, connected, and affluent, she had been none of these. She was, in fact, a poor, overweight, unattractive, middle-aged woman.

She was, as John well knew, invisible.

She was not stupid, just lonely, so lonely that she had thrown caution and good sense to the wind at the prospect of being seen, being heard, being loved by someone, and for her faith and trust, she’d lost her life and got her face and body disfigured beyond recognition, well, almost beyond recognition.

Sherlock had managed an identification. That was the feature of interest.

The taxi stopped. Sherlock leapt out into the rain and disappeared through the front door. John paid the driver.

* * *

John stood with her hands on her hips. She could have a drink and go to bed. She could have a cup of tea and attempt a conversation with Sherlock. She could have a cup of coffee and…

John saw the box. One eyebrow rose, and when her eyes met Sherlock’s, she realised that she was being watched. _Keenly_ watched.

John strode to the bookcase and, upon retrieving the box, said, “Bath first.”

* * *

This time, Sherlock did not wait to speak. She stroked John’s head for a few minutes and then said, “People get so sentimental about their pets. They talk such piffle to them, as if they can understand.”

John rolled onto her back and looked up at Sherlock, her head still pillowed on Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock smiled a half-smile and continued to stroke John’s temple and brow with one hand.

“My beautiful girl.”

The lie did not sting as much as it might have.

John was not beautiful.

Just piffle, but sweet piffle.

“My strong girl, my brave girl.”

More piffle, but John closed her eyes and let Sherlock’s words fall into her mind like honey cascading from a wooden dipper into a cup of tea.

“My good girl. My good, good girl.”

John rolled onto her side, away from the fire, until her nose brushed the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

A _new_ dressing gown.

Oh, John was an idiot! As ever, she saw, but did not observe.

The dressing gown was a chocolate brown colour.

To match the collar.

* * *

The next time was cut short, but not before John spied the brush on the side table. She crawled on all fours and clasped the handle between her teeth. Then she brought it to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled as she took it. She scratched John’s head and said,

“Must keep my beautiful girl properly groomed.”

John sat on the floor between Sherlock’s legs, facing the fire, and leaned into the strokes of the brush, but the spell was soon broken by a _beep_ from Sherlock’s phone.

Nothing changed. Sherlock was still Sherlock: cases, experiments, nights at the morgue, days in the the lab, dark moods—though there were fewer of those now, John noted—followed by lazy days followed by bouts of frenetic energy.

John said nothing, but she wondered a great deal. Finally, she determined that her questions were essentially two, why and how. Why did they do it? And how could Sherlock go from cool, aloof detective to warm, affectionate dog lover so quickly, not allowing a trace of the latter to bleed into the life of the former?

John had no answers.

* * *

Something was wrong.

John could feel it. Sherlock’s touched was perfunctory, and the part of her closest to John—the thigh muscles beneath John’s head—were flexed to the point of trembling.

Then, just when John was ready to unbuckle the collar and call it a night, Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder.

John’s left shoulder. John’s _bare_ left shoulder.

Well.

Until now, Sherlock’s hands had not strayed from John’s head. She’d touched John’s face and hair plenty, but nothing lower than the nape of John’s neck.

In an instant, the hand was gone.

“John.”

John lifted her head and started.

Sherlock was terrified. There was no other word to describe her expression.

Oh, Sherlock.

John pushed up onto her hands and nuzzled at the side of Sherlock’s neck. She heard a gasp and felt a pounding heart beneath her lips.

A phrase John had once read in a magazine rose to the surface of her mind.

Skin hunger.

Then the hand was back on John’s shoulder.

John turned her head and watched with awe. Even in her wildest fantasies, she had never imagined their first kiss to be Sherlock’s lips on her scar.  

“Some say I rescued you, but we both know it’s a matter of conjecture who rescued whom.”

John smiled. Then she leaned closer and licked at the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. Then she watched Sherlock, who was watching her own hand, running up and down John’s bare arm.

“What breed are you, John?” Sherlock shook her head. “Stupid. You’re a gun dog. Obviously.” Sherlock looked at John and grinned.

John snorted. Then she pounced.

She and Sherlock tumbled to the floor as one, rolling and vying for dominance, giggling. Finally, John allowed herself to be pinned. She was on her back, looking up; Sherlock’s gaze travelled up and down her body, and there was no mistaking the want in those grey eyes.

John shivered.

Sherlock turned her head sharply and said, “Fire’s almost out. That won’t do.”

John crawled back to the sofa. In for a penny, she thought as she slipped out of her clothes and wrapped a blanket around her.

Fire re-kindled, Sherlock turned. And stared.

John waited.

“Good girl.”

Sherlock untied the sash of her dressing gown and settled back on the sofa. John shifted so that her head was on the arm of the sofa and her torso draped across Sherlock’s lap. She faced the fire and waited.

To be petted.

Sherlock’s right hand was in John’s hair, but her left hand was everywhere, moving down John’s back, caressing her bottom, brushing her pubic hair, rubbing her stomach, fondling her breasts, pinching her nipples. It was, in a word, exploring her, and John revelled in the sensation of being explored, discovered. Of having her pleasure mapped.

“John.”

The voice was strained. John looked over her shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes were pinched shut, and her face bore a pained expression. Her whole body was tense, and her hand was a tight fist between her legs.

Oh, Sherlock.

John nosed beneath Sherlock’s dressing gown and licked her breast through a threadbare cotton vest.

“John,” hissed Sherlock through clenched teeth.

John didn’t stop. She licked the swell of Sherlock’s breast, her nipple, and the valley of her cleavage—all atop the fabric of the vest. Then her tongue touched skin as she licked up the side of Sherlock’s neck. The licks were gentle, reassuring touches that, John hoped, said everything that she could not.

It’s okay. I’m here. Let go. Let me love you. It’s okay. I’m here.

By the time John was nibbling on Sherlock’s earlobe, Sherlock was gripping John in a painfully tight embrace. Ignoring her own discomfort, John lapped along Sherlock’s jaw line and then moved down the other side of her neck.

John stopped licking when she reached the vest. She bent low and pressed her lips to the centre of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers once. Then she settled on the floor before Sherlock. And sat on her heels. And waited.

Sherlock stood and removed her clothing, piece by piece.

Christ, she was gorgeous.

After slipping her arms back into the sleeves of the dressing gown, Sherlock returned to the sofa and spread her legs. She slid down and, with two fingers, opened herself.

And very soon John decided that she would be content to lick Sherlock’s clit and tongue her cunt for the rest of her natural life.

But it wasn’t to be.

_Beep!_

In a cloud of profanity and brown silk, Sherlock disappeared down the hallway.

“ _FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck! TWO HOURS AND WE ARE BACK HERE! FUCK!_ ”

John laughed and unbuckled the collar with one hand.

* * *

In two hours, they were not back before the fire.

They were in Sherlock’s bed.

John wore the collar around her neck and Sherlock’s nude body plastered to her back. John rut against the pillow between her legs while Sherlock rut against John.

This was John’s fantasy, being mounted, ridden, fucked long and well, with the scent of Sherlock in her nose and the pinch of Sherlock’s teeth on the ridge of her shoulder.

Then Sherlock sat up and ran both hands down John’s back, which was already damp with perspiration.

“My good girl works so hard, letting all those silly policemen know they can go hang!”

That had been Sherlock, not John, and she had not used those exact words, but the implication had been the same.

With deep, hard strokes, Sherlock massaged John’s back and shoulders. When she bent to lick along John’s spine, lumbar to cervical, that odd phrase surfaced again in John’s mind.

Skin hunger.

Sherlock’s mouth was hungry. Her touch was hungry. It seemed to John that all of her was, in fact, starving.

John groaned, and in doing so, realised that what was once so comforting—not having to speak—was now torture. She bit her bottom lip to keep from calling out Sherlock’s name and reached for another pillow to muffle her whimpers as she came.

Sherlock came at once, almost before John’s tongue even touched her.

As Sherlock’s breathing slowed, it occurred to John that dogs normally slept at the foot of their owner’s beds. Her eyes must have betrayed her thoughts, for very soon she heard Sherlock say, “Don’t even think about it.” And then John was being yanked upwards and half-pinned beneath Sherlock.

Sherlock planted a kiss at the centre of John’s scar and said, “Stay.”

And John did. For a while.

* * *

John woke in darkness.

Instinctively—how had something so foreign become instinct so quickly, she wondered—her hand went to her neck.

The night was full of surprises: the collar was still there and Sherlock was still there, beside John, and Sherlock was, in fact, a human furnace and beneath her body and the bedding, John was sweating.  

John wriggled from under Sherlock and threw off the covers. The rush of cool air felt glorious.

Sherlock made a noise. She reached for John and then mumbled, “Too hot. M’sorry, m’girl.”

John might have fallen out of the bed right then and there. Sherlock Holmes had never apologised for anything, to anyone, in any form, as far as John knew.

John crawled to the head of the bed and twisted. Then she moved down Sherlock’s body from crown to toenail, licking, pausing only to suck and nip and nibble at the spots that made Sherlock sigh and murmur, “Yes, m’girl, right there.”

John by-passed Sherlock’s mons, electing instead to lick down her lower half, thighs and knees and ankles, zigzagging from left leg to right, and only when she had finished sucking both of Sherlock’s big toes did she return and tongue-fuck Sherlock’s cunt.

Sherlock came with John’s name on her lips. Then she shifted and John tongued her arse as she rut against a mound of bedding and came again.

Then John resumed her licking, moving back up Sherlock’s body, from the cleft of her buttocks to her neck.

And it was at the latter spot that John genuinely lamented the fact that she was a dog and not, say, a monkey, an animal with opposable thumbs. She longed to touch, really touch, Sherlock’s hair, but made do with nuzzling the back of her head and breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

When John was done, Sherlock rose on all fours and met here eye-to-eye.

“Show me what you want, John. You can have anything, anything at all.”

And once again, John’s newly-minted instinct reared its odd head, and despite silent protests—hers—and vocal ones—Sherlock’s—she crawled to the foot of Sherlock’s bed, curled in a ball, and promptly fell sleep.

* * *

“John.”

John uncoiled at the sound of her name and immediately felt a stab of pain.

Christ, why was she—?

Memories came flooding back.

Oh, right.

She rubbed her neck—bare!—and pushed up to sitting with her hands.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed, with mobile in hand.

She looked normal.

John drew the blanket around herself and blushed from sheer awkwardness, but Sherlock gave no indication that she noticed either John’s nakedness or her embarrassment.

“Client. Should be here, uh,” she looked at her mobile, “ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes! Fuck!”

“You needn’t attend. Should be an open and shut case of identity fraud. Client’s name is,” she check the mobile again, “Garrideb.”

“I’m coming,” said John, wincing as she inched to the edge of the bed. “If I can just get a cup of…”

The doorway was empty.

“Nothing,” sighed John.

* * *

Watching Sherlock pace like a caged animal hurt worse than a gunshot wound.

“You needn’t stay, Sherlock. I doubt that they’re going to keep me overnight, and even if they do, I’ll just sleep and take a taxi back to Baker Street in the morning. Really, please go. It’s a mere scratch,” she gestured to her bandaged left arm, “Superficial.”

“Fine.” Sherlock strode out of the room.

John fell back against the hospital bed.

A nurse appeared.

“Miss Watson, please rate your pain on a scale of zero to ten.”

John glanced at the empty doorway and said,

“Ten.”

* * *

John winced.

“Take your time, miss.”

“Thank you.”

She opened her wallet on her thigh and pulled the bills out and handed them to the driver, one at a time, cursing when one fell to the floor of the vehicle. “Um, that’s yours, too.”

“Thank you, miss. Shall I help you with the bag?”

“I’ll manage.”

* * *

The sling was a nuisance, but the abject failure of John’s first attempt to manage without it was still fresh in her mind, so she didn’t dare try a second.

John decided that, for once, she was going to take her own advice and stay ahead of the pain; after completing the Herculean task of opening the pill botte and a bottle of water with one hand, she swallowed two tablets.

_Knock, knock._

Oh, Christ.

Sherlock.

No.

No Sherlock today.

John rose and walked to the door and touched it with her right hand.

“I can’t, Sherlock. Whatever it is, I can’t do it. I’m too…” John could not find the right word.

She heard a noise and then footsteps on the stairs. Then she opened the door.

The box was on the floor.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock was at the bottom step. She looked up.

John froze. She didn’t need to be a proper genius to deduce that Sherlock Holmes had been crying recently.

Sherlock gestured to the box. “If at any point—“

“Sherlock, I can’t—“

Sherlock gave a curt nod. John watched her back stiffen. “Of course,” she said softly.

“Idiot.”

Sherlock looked up again, scowling.

“I _physically_ can’t.” John raised her bandaged arm. “I can’t buckle it with one hand.”

Sherlock stared. Then she stammered, “But you would consider, I mean, that is to say, could I, or would you permit me to, um, assist you, with it, that is?“

The look of dawning hope on Sherlock’s face as she climbed the stairs meant that only one answer was possible in John’s mind.

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock melted. There was no other word for it. The instant the collar was around John’s neck, her face softened and her expression was flooded with emotion.

“You took the painkillers.”

John nodded.

“You never take the painkillers.”

John shrugged.

“You’re hurting.”

John glared at her.

Idiot. Of course, she was.

In that moment, Sherlock might have been shot herself, but she quickly shrugged off the look of shock and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Bath. Rid you of this horrid hospital stench.”

John’s yelp was of more surprise than pain, as Sherlock carefully scooped her up in her arms and carried her downstairs.  

Steam rose from the bath and quickly filled the small space. Sherlock’s hand and the sponge made a quiet ripple moving through the water. The rise and fall of their co-mingled breaths was like a lullaby, but just as John was about to doze, Sherlock spoke,

“Evans was lucky. If you had killed you, he would not have left that room alive.”

She kissed John’s scar and began washing her hair.

* * *

John dreamt of grassy hills and sunny days and Sherlock, but she woke to pain.

“John.”

Sherlock had heard John’s whimper. Of course, she had. John was in Sherlock’s bed.

John opened her eyes. Sherlock stood beside the bed, pill bottle in hand.

John growled.

“John.” Sherlock reached for her with one hand.

John jerked away and whimpered again.

“Are you hungry?”

John was famished, but the collar was still on. The prospect of having Sherlock spoon-feed her like an infant—or worse, be forced to eat from a bowl on the floor—held no appeal. She grunted.

“Mrs. Hudson left some of that paella you like.”

John’s stomach gurgled, and she silently cursed her body’s betrayal. Then she was being lifted again.

“Stubborn,” whispered Sherlock.

* * *

It was a good compromise, John thought. They were before the fire, John ensconced in a pile of pillows and cushions, being fed from Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock tucked the rice and meat in a thin scrap of bread and offered it to John, who greedily accepted. Sherlock performed the manoeuvre over and over with such skill and dexterity that John’s eyes and thoughts drifted to a dark figurine, almost hidden amongst the bric-a-brac that decorated the mantelpiece.

“Well done, John. I did spend some time in Ethiopia. More?”

John opened her mouth.

John watched the fire. The pain was a dull, constant ache, just enough to keep her from drifting back to sleep.

“Redbeard. He was an Irish setter. And my only friend.” The ‘until you’ hung silently between them. “He got hurt too.” John heard her shift away. “So now you know the truth, now you know the ‘why’ of this.”

Before Sherlock could stand, John had caught the brown dressing gown between her teeth and tugged.

Their eyes met.

Not the whole truth, Sherlock.

John released the gown; Sherlock stood and stoked the fire.

“If you can’t speak, then you can’t call me a ‘freak.’”

John unbuckled the collar and let it slip from her hand. “You’re no—“

“I AM! What normal person has to turn her, her…,” Sherlock faltered, ”…into a _dog_ in order to, to…”

As John’s pain flared, so did her anger.

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH? I’M OFF THE LEAD OR HADN’T YOU _OBSERVED_?!”

The last word was pronounced with a sneer, and John quickly realised that the whole scene was too charged for what she had to say next, but she tempered her voice and said it anyway.

“Sherlock, you are no more freak for wanting me to where a collar than I am for wearing—and enjoying—it.”

Sherlock turned and just as John had imagined her lips were perfect. Soft and supple and extraordinarily palliative.

John’s pain dissolved.

“But I have two conditions,” said John when the kiss broke. “One, no more lies.”

Sherlock frowned. “I haven’t lied to you, John.”

“I am not beautiful, Sherlock.”

“But you are—“

“STOP IT!”

John’s anger surprised even her. And it surprised Sherlock, too, judging by her expression. Then Sherlock tapped her fingers to her lips. “Are you strong?” she asked.

“At the moment, hardly.” John gestured to her bandaged arm.

“Brave?”

John shrugged. “Rarely.”

“Good?”

“Sometimes.”

“Loyal?”

“Always.”

“I will endeavour to remember, but during play…” She waved a hand.

“Fair enough,” said John. The second condition was the one that mattered.

“And?”

“I shan’t pretend I don’t care for you when the collar’s off. Don’t ask it of me. Not out there,” John glanced towards the windows. “I understand that there are professional considerations, and I’m not one for public displays anyhow, but here, behind closed doors, don’t ask me to feign indifference. I adore you. What you do, or don’t, is your affair.”

Sherlock bent and kissed John’s lips again. Then she smiled. “Okay, but,” she bent and picked up the collar, “this?”

“I like it. I want to continue.”

“Good. I’d hate alterations.”

Sherlock removed her dressing gown and showed John the tag.

**_~ Sherlock Holmes ~_ **

**_If lost, please return to John Watson._ **

John smiled.

“And I have a condition of my own,” said Sherlock, slipping back into the dressing gown.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I find that, on the rare occasion when that I do concede to a corporal need for repose, waking in proximity to your physical form, with the corollary benefits of increased heat and pleasant fragrance, an agreeable circumstance. Of course, the agreeableness increases exponentially should both parties be amenable sexual congress as said proximity affords a certain efficiency and expediency.”

John chuckled; so this was the world’s only consulting detective in love. “Yes. When you sleep, I shall sleep with you.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock. “But not at the foot of the bed,” she added.

John rubbed the back of her neck. “You won’t get an argument from me on that point. Collar on or off?”

Sherlock huffed. “Both. Naturally.”

John reached up with one hand and pulled Sherlock to her and kissed her soundly. She left her hand in Sherlock’s hair after the kiss broke, just to feel the soft tresses around her fingers.

Sherlock beamed.

“I’m afraid sexual congress of an expedient or efficient nature is a bit beyond me for the moment,” lamented John, looking down at her arm.

“Your hair needs brushing.”

It didn’t.

“And you look thoroughly unpetted.” Sherlock held up the collar.

John leaned forward and smirked. “There’s petted and there’s _petted_.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Both. Naturally.”

Sherlock fastened the collar and pressed her lips to the buckle.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
